Silent Requiem
by GhostGlider
Summary: He became a worldfamous detective. They all wanted to know why. This boy: was it his name, his father, his other letter, a scar? More than a tale of this man's life, it's the story of how he was MADE.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

The night sky had never been so beautiful, so ghastly and frightening. Turrets of dark clouds parted to reveal a yellow full moon which shone its pale light upon the barren land. Mist invaded the broken-down fort and an eerie silence now replaced the chaos that had insued mere minutes before. A heavy sense of foreboding hung stiffly in the air.

The lone scout traveled the winding corridors, nervously holding a gas mask to his face. The mist around him was slightly tinged with green and it swirled around his legs as he shuffled his way around the maze. He was almost finished registering every demolished room, committing even the last detail to memory to later report to his leader. The end of the corridor loomed up at him and he turned around to head back. There was no one now. All the inhabitants of the place had either been caught or had escaped into the woods to the south. It was just as his captain had predicted.

The scout was about to stride off when something caught his eye. It was not the adjacent room's inconspicuous entrance that riled him; it was what lay past it, sprawled across the floor. He had to go inside to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He shifted the long weapon slung on his hip and kneeled warily beside the prone figure.

It looked as though the boy had been hastily tossed there. He was incredibly thin and his pale skin and plain clothes were ripped here and there. Whole circles around his wrists and ankles and the palms of his hands and feet were raw. More shocking still was the boy's face: it was streaked with blood, some fresh, some crusting around his closed eyes. His dark, matted hair was wildly strewn every which way, also caked with the dry substance.

The scout shook him, the boy did not stir. The man ungloved one hand and placed it on the child's burning forehead. He then pressed two fingers to his slender neck. He was shocked to find a pulse.

----------------------------------------------------

"Quill!" the scout cried, moments later, emerging from the wreckage with the boy in his arms. "Quill, we got a live one!"

It did not look like it. The boy's head was thrown back, mouth slightly open. His limbs dangled awkwardly from the scout's firm grasp.

"I don't think he has much left him in, though," he bellowed over the whirring engine of the military helicopter in front of him. The man they called "Quill" stepped down from the chopper. He was well into his fifties, his hands were strong, his hair peppered with gray and his laugh-lined face, authentically benevolent. At the moment, however, he wore an appropriately concerned scowl. Although the leader of the investigation team need not even be present at the site of the capture, Quill had come along and now descended from the safety of his helicopter cabin. He marched right up to the younger scout and took the boy in his own arms. The child's elongated frame was surprisingly light, even for its thinness.

The scout began to chatter away excitedly, describing the circumstances under which he had found the boy, the oddity of the fact that he was not bound nor chained and still had those marks, and voicing his curiosity as to what this boy had to do with the mafia's intentions. Quill barely listened. "Were there any others?" was all he voiced, not looking up from the child's red-stained face. The scout fell silent for a moment.

"Not in that quadrant of the fort, sir." He replied pensively, "What about the other scouts? What have they—" He stopped himself, all too late of course. He had no right to ask his superior and he knew it. The young scout felt he must have angered his commanding officer—commander of his commander, actually. Quill, however, showed no sign of it.

"The others found nothing as well. Most bizarre…" he said, more to himself than to the scout. He turned and strode briskly back to the chopper, hoisting both himself and the boy inside the cabin. He gave the bony bundle up to the paramedics and placed a radio call. They were to go back to the base to deliver the twelve captured criminals and the innocent survivor.

'_Innocent until proven guilty_,' Quill mused. The whole thing was very puzzling. True, the boy was a prisoner, but why him? This changed the picture for Quill, drastically, and as much as it pained him, he knew he must interrogate the boy as soon as he woke up, even if he hadn't fully recovered. It was his duty as leader of this investigation and of that small, private force. Quill heaved a heavy sigh.

"It's a good thing I'm retiring after this," he mumbled. "What?" came his partner.

"Oh, nothing, Roger. Nothing at all…"


	2. 314

**A/N: omg! I forgot to add the disclaimer in the Prologue! I'm such a scatterbrain... 0.o So uhm... sorry, here it is!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, its plotline or its characters nor do I wish to profit from them. ****The former rightfully belong to Ohba and Obata-sama. **

**Enjoy--I hope!**

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CHAPTER ONE: 314

Quillish Wammy sat at his desk. One would have thought him a statue were he not breathing. His concentration was such that the man did not even blink. His brows knitted closer together as he tried to piece all the loose data flying around in his head. His concentration was shot, however, when a pattering sound came down the hall. Quillish's military awareness kicked in and he sat up straight. Whoever was walking towards his room was doing so in a great hurry. '_No, he is running,_' the seasoned man gauged. The steps halted in front of his door which swung open rather violently.

'_Roger,_' thought Quillish without even turning from his desk. '_He is the only one who can barge into my quarters and he knows it…_'

"Quillish" came Roger's raspy groan of a voice. Roger was Quillish's same age but looked more than half a decade older. Quillish often teased his friend about this and told him that he ought to relax more often. Roger never took this well. "Quillish, the boy—!" Wammy turned calmly from his work station.

"Nothing bad has happened to him, I hope."

"Well he's awake but… um…"

Quillish raised an eyebrow at the agitated man. "Perhaps I'd better go see for myself."

"Yes, please!" Roger looked if even a bit relieved.

* * *

It was a short ride from the hotel to the clinic. Quillish sat in the back seat, taking the road's rural setting in. He found he rather like the New Zealand landscape. The mountains, oh, the _mountains! _He had not gone climbing since… since… since a time which he'd rather forget.

The car whined to a stop at the hospital door. It was a perfect place to keep the boy. It was a small hospital on the outskirts of the city meant to tend to accidents on the road. It was both discrete and had excellent medical service. Roger practically bolted out of their ride, his friend striding calmly behind him. Quillish was not too worried about the whole affair. Roger, he knew, was a bundle of nerves and tended to drown in a glass of water, so to speak. He had become more serene with age but anything related to children seemed to bring back some of his old anxiety. Quillish, however was _very_ good with children. He loved them all, never having had any of his own.

A plump, red-haired nurse greeted them at the waiting room. She seemed rather harried as well. "Right his way, please" she piped with a thick accent and bustled away. Before opening the door to room 314, she turned to address the two gentlemen.

"Please, forgive the mess but we could not go inside to clean up. He became hysterical!"

"That's quite all right, Madam," Quillish reassured her. "Roger, I think it would be best if I enter alone," he stated with a smirk, relieving his friend of the duty and poking fun at him at the same time. Roger nodded wordlessly and stepped aside to let his friend pass.

The hospital room, Quill noted calmly _was_ a mess, a _BIG_ mess. The floor was a helter-skelter of fallen instruments, the tall racks that held bags of transfusion blood and other such intravenous liquids had been knocked into eachother and into the wall, broken glass littered the counter and the cot had been all but capsized. In one corner of the room, huddled against the sterile, white wall, was a small, robed figure with a shock of dark hair.

"Good morning," Quillish said amicably. He stepped carefully across the floor and straightened out eh up-ended cot with a _clang_. The boy shrank further into himself, hugging his knees tightly. "Oh, don't worry about this," Wammy commented in an off-handed matter, "Someone else will clean it up in due time." His creased eyes met the boy's for the first time. The huge, dead lamps that had been lowered to gaze at some point on the floor now scanned the man in front of them before coming to rest on his spectacles. The boy opened his mouth to speak but caught himself and closed it again. "Yes?" Quill smiled genuinely. The boy only shook his head, tossing his spidery hair. Quillish then busied himself with clearing the small armchair, appearing not to mind the other person in the room. He placed several stray utensils on a pan that had survived the onslaught.

"Don't," said a little voice. Quillish did not look at him. "I'm sorry?" he had heard perfectly.

"You shouldn't" came the voice again, steadier this time. '_He has a pretty deep voice for a nine-year-old…_' Quillish thought, '_That must be his age._'

"I just wanted a place to sit," the older man said, trying to maintain the conversation. He proved his statement my taking a seat. The boy had fallen silent again and was staring at the floor. "What's your name, young man?" Wammy said at a length. He was careful to keep his tone good natured, slightly aloof, and not in the least bit aggressive nor obtrusive. Yet the boy would not speak. Quillish had known this would happen so he levered it to his advantage.

"You don't want to tell me?" he took his glasses off and cleaned them with a handkerchief.

The boy nodded once, visibly recoiling again. '_How sad…_' Quillish thought. The boy had probably been beaten the last time he refused to give an answer.

"That's all right," The spectacles came back on after a thorough inspection, "If you don't want to tell me then I won't force you to," He squinted at the boy, "Just so you know, _my_ name is Quillish Wammy. You may call me however you like but you will find most of my friends call me Quill."

Those large eyes shot up again, gauging, calculating. Quillish met the piercing gaze head-on with his own. '_Such intelligent eyes… This boy is trying to read me. I must let him know he can trust me._' "You seem mighty uncomfortable there. I understand you are ill at ease at this place but would you rather not return to the bed?" The boy actually answered this time. "I prefer corners," he stated simply, his steady voice belying none of his fear. A slight shiver ran the length oh his body. Wammy did not let this observation go to waste.

"But you are cold," he countered, knowing full well that that particular shiver had nothing to do with temperature, "If I move the bed to the corner will you go back to it? You cannot stay seated like that on the cold floor much longer, you know." The boy's eyes flickered in the direction of the toppled racks and Quillish noticed a small bit of blood trickling down the spindly, bandaged hands from the slit where the drugs had been injected. '_He ripped them out himself. He doesn't like needles?_'

"I—" the boy started but speech eluded him once more.

"We don't have to hook you back to those things right away. For now we just need to concentrate on keeping you warm."

The eyes widened even more if such a thing was possible. Then a breakthrough: the boy blinked, _twice_. He was broken and Quillish knew he had won. The calculating stare was gone and had been replaced by a look of utter confusion. "Come," the wizened man said, getting up from the chair. He pushed the cot towards the corner, expecting the boy—however unlikely—to get up. Then, something even more unexpected happened. A small hand shot up from behind the cot and lingered in the air. Wammy walked around to find the boy extending both arms at him. Quillish stood stone-cold for a second. The shock on his face passed and he picked the boy up from under the arms, hoisting him unto the cot. He finished pushing the rickety bed to the corner, to which the boy promptly huddled against. He did, however, allow Quillish to tuck a pillow behind his back and drape the blankets over his shoulders.

"Thank you, Mr. Wammy," the boy's velvety voice said quietly. Quillish bowed politely, still perplexed but not letting it show. '_He remembered my name perfectly, what a child…_' "If you need anything please tell the nurse to call me." "Yes, sir," the boy uttered.

As the man turned to go, he had only one question on his mind: why the sudden change of heart? The child had been plainly mistrusting before, then the next minute gave himself up completely in Wammy's arms. '_Is this an act? He figured out my need for his trust and reacted accordingly to further investigate me and my intentions. Is he __**that**__ smart? That would really be something… _'

Even as he walked outside and shut the door behind him with a soft _click_, he could still feel those eyes burning holes into the back of his head.

* * *

Roger was gone, so was the nurse. Quillish left a note for her with the receptionist saying to call him if the boy said anything. He returned to the car where Roger was waiting.

"How did it go?"

Wammy considered how best to phrase himself. "We must be careful and take this slowly. Needless to say, he is very mistrusting and won't spill a thing about himself easily."

"Honestly," Roger scoffed, "You'd think the boy would have realized we're helping him"

"Oh, heavens, no! This boy is terribly smart. Only a very naive person—a true child—would think us their friend without further proof than a hospital bed and a single smile. No, I would expect nothing short of this from an adult, yet this child…"

"Now is not the time to be thinking about your 'Wammy's House'!" Roger snapped at him and Quillish mentally kicked him. He was suddenly grateful fro the partition between them and their driver. "Do be careful, Roger! That place is just as covert and important as our current mission. Furthermore, it is my personal project. As my former partner in the MI6 and as my _friend_ the least I'd expect from you is to keep quiet about my personal affairs!"

Roger stared at him, agape. Neither spoke for the remainder of the car ride.

Despite that short and rather nasty squabble, all Quillish could think about was the boy. He wondered a great many things about him; from his name to how he had gotten tangled in the mafia's scheme, but what he most wanted to know was what the child thought about him.

'_Did he really know what I was trying to do? No, of course not. Maybe if he were a little older—eleven, twelve perhaps—and outstandingly brilliant even for what I have seen. But no matter how sharp, and eight-to-nine-year-old just isn't emotionally mature enough to suspect such underlying intentions, especially a boy from a decent family. His manners and coy shyness show me as much. Maybe it __**was**__ trust after all. Children—regardless of their personality, their social standpoint, their past—they all long for the same thing. All they need is a little love; it is the most basic of infantile instinctual desires._'

Wammy knew it. It was his strongest conviction. He had cared for and almost personally raised a great many children. This theory of his had been proven through consistency time and time again. He knew he would be able to coax an answer from the boy.

'_Then I can take him to The Wammy's House where he can rest from this awful ordeal. Who knows, he may even be the one I've been looking for! _'

Quillish smiled at his own reflection in the car's window.

'_Silly old fool_'' he chided himself '_He might not even be that brilliant. Even if I do get him back to England, the boy's parents may turn up looking for him._'

* * *

The little boy woke up screaming. The room around him was dark and dutifully still. He wiped the salty tears from his face and bit back the urge to yank the tubes and needles out of his hands once more. Now that he was fully awake and panting into the oppressive silence, he could no longer remember what the nightmare had been. Noises and lights erupted from the hall outside his room and he knew that the doctors were coming to see what had happened to him. He sighed, curled up and bit his thumb.

This is why he hated sleeping.

* * *

**

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A/N: Silly me and my blunder! Anyway, finally my first fic is up! Please tell me what you think about it. Any comments, sugestions, and criticism are hugely appreciated even if its just to inform me of a typo! I kid you not, I'm perfectionist to a fault.**

**Thanks for taking the time to read this!**

**- Shiva**


	3. Forgetful

**A/N: Thanx to all the ppl who took the time to drop reviews on the last chappie! They were useful, really! (I happen to find motivation ****quite useful ) So, uhh here's #2… Enjoy!**

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CHAPTER TWO: FORGETFUL

Quillish returned to the clinic the next day, _without_ Roger. That same nurse greeted him and led him to room 314. She gave him a bit of an unofficial status report. The boy had allowed himself to be treated, albeit reluctantly, and was slowly gaining back some strength. His various wounds were healing quite well—better than expected, actually, and his hemoglobin level had been successfully stabilized. All in all, he seemed to be doing well, but he refused to eat or speak and had woken up screaming in the middle of the night. Their staff fathomed a nightmare. An official report would be ready to hand to him, his caretaker—Quillish chucked at this—in a few hours.

The room was very different this time, it was neat and tidy, but the cot and its occupant remained against the corner. The boy, who was biting his thumb, did not look up at this new presence but Wammy could have sworn he saw a spark go off in the child's eyes. '_Wishful thinking, perhaps?_'

"Good morning!" He chimed, sweeping off his bowler hat.

"Good morning Mr. Wammy," came a polite yet muddled voice.

"Are you feeling any better today?"

A pause, then a nod.

"Jolly good!"

Quillish took a seat in the same armchair he had cleared the day before, next to the door with the bed almost in front of him. As the minutes snailed by and neither said a word, Quillish pulled a book out from his satchel and began to read, keeping the book low enough to have a peripheral view of the boy. After a good measure, he looked up to find the child staring at him as intensely as the day before. The boy swiftly broke eye-contact and rested his chin on his knees. Quillish frowned and decided it was time to speak again.

"I dare say, you look quite bored," he said.

The eyes looked up for a split second before returning to stare off into oblivion. Quillish decided to press the issue. "I could get you a book or a puzzle if you want." The boy scowled at his bandaged toes and hugged his knees tighter, as though he were bracing himself.

"Mr. Wammy,"

"Yes m'lad?"

"Can I ask a favor of you?"

Quillish was quite taken aback. That was the most he'd spoken in a straight line. "Why, sure. Anything at all,"

"Could you please speak frankly, sir?"

This was definitely the last thing he'd expected to hear. '_Speak frankly? What on earth?_'

"You thought—" the boy continued, rocking back and forth, causing the cot's hinges to squeak, "I… I know you did not come here to entertain me… sir." His tone was even, though he looked downright frightened, wide eyes fixed on the cot's railing as though he might melt it. Quillish, meanwhile, stared at the lithe, curled-up figure in front of him, speechless. So the boy _had_ calculated that far. '_But it is impossible! He is a child. Maybe if he were older—No, even __**if**__ he were older he shouldn't be able to, not after the ordeal he has surely been put through. Why is he so calm? Why is he able to speak at all?!_' Wammy slapped himself mentally. He must not loose his cool over this. He had dealt with difficult children in the past but this scenario was totally new to him. Who was this boy? Maybe that's what he should find out to begin with. But first…

"Do you have any questions for me?" He had planned on asking this all along but never had he imagined he would be doing so this soon. Children were essentially delicate but his one seemed almost impervious to most affronts. "Please, bear in mind that I am ultimately trying to help you," he decided to be frank. The boy seemed to consider this, nibbling on his thumb once more.

"Where am I?"

"You are at St. Augustene's Clinic for—"

"I meant what country,"

'_Cheeky lad…_' "New Zealand,"

The child nodded his head slowly.

"Anything else?"

The boy did not answer so Quillish took this as a no.

"What is your name?" he echoed yesterday's question.

"I—" the patient began but his eyes widened a second later, oddly bright, "I don't know…" He seemed to realize this for himself. Suddenly, he gripped his hair and curled his toes, eyes ferociously open, fine brows furrowed with sheer confusion. "I don't know anything!" his voice was hardly more than a heated whisper.

Quillish was shocked into silence for the third time since he'd met the boy but at least his mind did not freeze as well. '_Amnesia?_' He considered all the possibilities. '_A head trauma… psychological repression… or is he lying to me?_' he decided to scratch the latter of these options.

"You don't remember?"

The boy let go of his head and shook it. No.

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing. It feels weird—" his voice cracked slightly on the end and his pale cheeks turned red. He buried his face in his knees and Quillish felt a small knot form in his throat.

Total amnesia? '_The poor thing. Any other kid would be distraught, they would panic. This boy is wrecked, any fool can see that. But he is also strong and, what baffles me the most, he is relatively calm for someone who's forgotten who he is… his judgment is sound under such pressure. I wonder exactly how far back he remembers and why and what it is that he forgot. I __**must**__ help him! For his sake, for the sake of the investigation—_' That's right, the investigation! Quillish had forgotten all about it. He was so wrapped up in this conundrum that he had completely missed the larger puzzle, the one that began with investigating the mafia. Quillish walked over to the cot and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. The child visibly recoiled but made no move otherwise.

"Do you want me to help you remember?" he uttered softly, using his free hand to smooth back the boy's hair. It was a ragged, course mess of a mop. The young lad looked up brusquely, forcing Quillish's hand away from his hair. Wammy also let go of the child's shoulder and peered into his face instead. The younger one had not been crying. He just stared ahead with a grim expression and nodded fiercely. Quillish had to smile.

'_This boy's resolve is impressive. Maybe he really is…_'

"Very well," he said, remembering what the nurse had told him, "but you must rest and recover. I was told you have not been eating. You cannot think on an empty stomach and drugs alone will not give you back your strength." The boy did not seem uncomfortable in the least bit, his face a blank mask. Instead, he simply shook his head.

"You are not hungry?" Quillish asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

"Not for hospital food," the boy countered evenly. The older man chuckled, causing the younger one to glance up at him. '_Picky, now, aren't we…_' "Then, what are you hungry for?"

No answer.

'_Just when I thought we were getting somewhere._' Quillish sighed. He was in for a rough one, he knew.

* * *

The hours came and went unheeded that day. Quillish knew they were making slow but steady progress despite earlier mishaps. At the moment, he was back to reading his book while the nameless boy had a great many pages of a newspaper scattered around his bed and the floor, and was working furiously on one of them.

The had reached the mutual agreement that they would take it easy for the day, that Quill was going to investigate at home and try to jolt the boy's memory tomorrow. Quillish had then gone out to the store to buy a couple of puzzles for him as reward for eating a good portion of his lunch. The child devoured the puzzles mercilessly—Quillish had made sure to bring along some pretty difficult ones to test the boy. The youngster in question had all but memorized the puzzles at the one-hour mark so Quillish was forced to improvise. He'd found an old newspaper and turned to the entertainment section. There was a letter soup and a crossword puzzle, both starring New Zealand political themes. That wouldn't do. Then he'd found a good number of Sudoku grids. '_Maybe…_'

The boy had no idea _what_ Sudoku was so he gazed a question at the older man. Quillish had barely finished explaining when the child asked him for a pen and started filling out the empty boxes on the newspaper. A mere eight minutes later he was done with all five of them. Quillish soon found himself scouring the whole clinic for old newspapers.

'_If this boy knows why I am doing this then he must be showing off. Though he does not lack "flaunting material" at all!_'

He now watched the boy as he scribbled away, hunched over in what seemed to be his predilect posture and awkwardly holding the pen by its upper tip. Due to his bandaged hands, Quillish could only guess. The puzzle boxes lay to one side, forgotten. A flip of the page and the pen began to scratch at the paper once more. '_Finished again? Under one minute this time…_'

Just then, a soft knock came at the door. Some random nurse with a long braid walked in with a tray, carrying several medical utensils. "Hello" she said sweetly to the nameless boy who immediately reacted by dropping the pen and scuttling back to the corner. Wammy frowned at the reaction but the nurse seemed to notice neither. "Time for your _checkup_," she said, emphasizing the last word. The small figure at the corner seemed to shrink with every passing second.

'_Poor thing,_' thought Quillish, '_Whatever these checkups are, they do not sound too nice_' Quillish was not too fond of hospitals either. They always pulled the darkness over his mind again.

"Now, let me take a look at your back," the nurse insisted, causing her patient to curl further into himself. Quillish got up slowly and shut his book with a _snap_. "I'll be just outside for the time being." The child looked up at him almost imploringly but did not say a word.

"If anything comes up, just holler."

"Sure" the nurse answered, not seeming to notice that Quillish had not been speaking to her.

As Quillish waited outside, staring out a window with a flawless posture and his hands clasped behind his back, he heard the pitter-patter of small, hurried steps coming towards him. He knew it must be that chubby, red-head nurse. He turned around, already smiling. '_Sure enough…_'

"Here you go, Mr. Wammy; the evaluation results, as promised."

He was handed a sheaf of paper with charts and graphs as he had requested. He would let the experts analyze those. Quillish, however, was more interested in the summarized, written report. He thanked the nurse with a courteous, hats-off bow and sat down on the nearby waiting area to read. He adjusted his spectacles and shuffled through the pile until he found what he was looking for.

The report mostly contained what he already was expecting. He read under his breath, skipping words in favor of finding results, "Slight hypothermia—already gone… dehydration—slowly receding… very low blood sugar—now _that's _a big problem. Good signs of flawless scarring—excellent, excellent… presents symptoms of chronic—what is this—anemia? By Jove! Is that why he is so pale? Arrived with a bit of a concussion—no surprise there. So maybe the head trauma_ did_ cause the amnesia! Let's see, what else… found traces of—"

Quillish stopped dead in his tracks with a gasp. The last thing he read convinced him that it was not a head trauma, but psychological repression what had caused him to forget. '_This boy has been—_' Wammy gritted his teeth and dropped the report on his lap to keep himself from wrinkling it. He placed a careworn hand to his temple and read through the last two lines once more. Quillish shook his head in disgust and disbelief. '_The monsters, no wonder the boy does not want to remember!_' He sighed and slammed the stack of papers down on a nearby coffee table, positively seething.

He most definitely _HAD_ to catch the bastards that did this.

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**A/N: Oka****aaaay, it was kinda' awkward to write that last part. Hell, it was awkward to write the whole conversation thing! I'm sorry if this chapter was a bit dull (the next one compensates, BIG TIME and is already in progress) or if you didn't get what happened to the boy… Any way, thanks to those of you who read, I will now beg u to review: ehem! pleaseeeee! X3 Tell me what you think even if it's two words!**

**Thank you!**

**-Shiva**


	4. Low Light

**A/N: This story is now called Silent Requiem (by Shiva)**

**Enjoy!**

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CHAPTER THREE: LOW-LIGHT 

'_Let's see… what do I know?_' Quillish revised for what had to be the umpteenth time. '_The first thing he remembers is waking up in the hospital or so he told me. He was aware of his amnesia and what it meant, pretty impressive if you ask me, and reacted as a frightened person would. The medics tried to settle him forcefully and he responded accordingly, leaving the room in the state I found it in the first day. Now, about the mafia: We know that their members are of Japanese origin. However, one of our recently captured confessed yesterday that they were accompanied by someone outside their circle, a Canadian who had lived in Toronto until he joined them secretly about a year ago. I am having Roger search for sudden disappearances in Toronto for the last year and a half as per the criminal's confession, but nothing has turned up yet._' Wammy tweaked his mustache, a sign of annoyance, and stood up from his desk, grumbling to himself all the while.

The investigation had not made the slightest progress since they returned to their base. This, along with the unsettling information he had received on the boy's report worried him greatly. They had been following this Japanese mafia around for months. Now that these had imprudently side-stepped a great many international borders, Quillish and the rest of his elite force had full backing from a number of governments to track them down and obliterate them if the need arose. Wammy had thought this stroke of luck to be the break they had been praying for, but the mafia's evasion tactics had suddenly gone "upgrade" on them. These unexpectedly brilliant moves had completely thrown the investigation team off course, when the Japanese had made a careless move that revealed their location. Wammy and his men successfully raided their hideout and, in doing so, had found an odd piece to the puzzle that they did not know where to place, the boy. Quillish was sure there had to be a link between this child and the Canadian man among the Japanese mafia, the two weirdest, most out-of-place shards in the otherwise perfect scenario, and that this link was the root of the problem.

'_I must uncover this small truth. If I do this, all will be revealed and the mafia will fall. It should be all right to take this course of action in the investigation. As if we had a better lead to follow…_'

Quillish was just afraid that his theory might be wrong; that there was, in fact, no such link. This would surely lead him head-long into yet another wall. '_Another dead end… Who is guiding these people anyway?_'

* * *

A third visit to the hospital meant more uncomfortable silences between the man and the boy. Luckily for Quillish, though, the nurses had taken on the dubious honor of hunting for newspapers to take to the little prodigy in room 314. Quillish was surprised to see him actually reading the news articles and filling out the crossword puzzles at the end, apparently having lost all interest in Sudoku. He did this all at breakneck speed, of course. Meanwhile, the older man nestled comfortably into the arm chair with his book in his hands. He was not reading at the moment, but thinking, going over the same evaluation process once and again to make sure he had missed nothing. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a scoff from the other side of the room. Quillish looked up to find the boy shaking his head at the newspaper with a peeved expression. 

"What is it, lad?"

The boy looked up expressionlessly and returned to the paper a second later.

"Found something interesting, have you?" Wammy pressed. He knew now that the boy talked little, so his every gesture could be very telling. Finally, the child spoke. "This article here," he said, unwrapping one arm from his drawn legs to point at a place on the page. Quillish lifted himself up from the armchair with a groan and walked over to the cot. He stood beside the boy and peered at what his bony finger held down.

It was a small piece of writing with its photograph on a local murderer—young and deranged by the look of him—and still missing. The article gave a general overview of the site of the murder and the state in which the murder victim, a small woman, had been found. The boy seemed to be pointing at a certain passage so Quillish read it.

"_The police suspect a crime of passion with the evidence gathered so far. _

_They are now looking into the backgrounds of both O'Connor and his victim in hopes of—_"

The boy's finger blotted out the rest.

"What about it?" came Quillish at a length.

"It's not a crime of passion. They ought to check their facts."

The older man swiveled around to look at him questioningly, "What do you mean?"

"It says here," the child continued in monotone, "that the girl was found on the floor, bound and gagged and shot square in the head. The security guard says he heard no gunshot but he did see the suspect go in. There was obviously no forced entry since the guard let the man in himself."

"Yes," Quillish could see where he was going but…

"The murderer was the victim's guest—"

"That is precisely why the police suspect a crime of passi—"

"and his gun had a silencer. An underage college student?"

Quillish did a double take. Now, _this_ changed the picture. The boy, however, was not done. "They also say that her apartment was had been practically tuned upside-down, yet they do not mention the girl being raped." Quillish did not even want to know how the boy knew of gun silencers and rape. '_Especially because he says he cannot remember. This is not the point, though…_' "So, what do you think it is, then?"

"If you ask me, I'd say both the culprit and the victim were involved in some shady business. The girl had become a liability, she had to be silenced, yet the murderer-to-be and his accomplices still had to search for an object in her possession that pointed towards their culpability. The slash marks across her body indicate that she was tortured at her own home, probably for the location of said object, and then shot when her assailants found it. This was all done very calmly and staged as a crime of passion so O'Connor could always get off on an insanity plea if he were ever caught."

Quillish stood in the middle of the room, aghast.

"This is just my opinion so I could very well be wrong," the voice muttered, now seeming much less secure. The boy receded back into his shell and flipped through the pages again as though he had never spoken. Nonetheless, everything he'd said maid sense to Quillish.

'_Absolutely brilliant! How did he?_' Wammy made a mental note to later send an anonymous letter to the local police to supply them with this theory.

Those dull, owl-like eyes, framed with dark hair, turned slowly to lock on to Quillish's awe-struck face. It was amazing, how much power that boy held in his gaze. Quillish felt self-conscious (foreign territory for him) as the boy scrutinized him with his lusterless lamps. He felt expected to say something, anything. He was just about to speak when someone burst into the room, making both Quillish and his patient jump.

"Quillish,"

'_Roger __**has **__to stop doing that…_'

"I found him!"

Wammy's heart leapt, "The Canadian?"

"Yes, but… uh," Roger faltered at the sight of the boy, who had returned to staring off into the blue. Quillish looked behind him to the child and then back to Roger, understanding.

"Oh, yes. Actually, I think it best for our boy to hear this too."

The intensity in the child's eyes grew, something only Wammy noticed. Quillish tried to convey the kid's importance to Roger, '_Whether or not there really is a connection, I need him to hear this. There are many kinds of genius among the children I have known. Some tend to think that that proficiency in science and mathematics is the only sign of intelligence but that is false. I have met a great many musical geniuses, artistic geniuses, stunning writers, children with seemingly impossible emotional control or physical awareness. But his is one of the rarest kind of brilliant. It can only be described by one word; insightful. It is the power to think completely outside the box with no impairments or restrictions what so ever to the cognitive process. This is the base root of genius._'

It was a power indeed; one Quillish had long sought for among his children. He wanted to see this ability in its purest state, yet advanced, and the boy's display just minutes ago had left him stunned. He must see this child's full potential, especially if it meant a powerful ally to the investigation team.

"Tell us then," he said casually to Roger, taking a seat on the chair beside the cot. He knew his friend preferred to stand so he didn't bother being hospitable.

"The man in question," Roger began after clearing his throat, "lived in Toronto for three years until he was last seen. Before that he lived in a country house in Japan but only for a short period of time. The circumstances of his disappearance are most mysterious. It seems that, at the time, he was living with his two small children—who's mother passed away the year before—and the three of them just _vanished_! The police searched for months, yielding no results. The house is still intact."

Quillish had been looking at the boy the whole time but got nothing out of it. The pale face had remained impassive, as usual, throughout Roger's small speech. "Your opinion on this, young man?" Quillish voiced fearlessly, expecting an almost clairvoyant deduction like before. He knew Roger would be undignified at his consulting a child, since his friend clearly did not understand that genius (which came to some as a birthright) could often outstrip wisdom (which came to most people with age). Quillish rather felt Roger resented it.

"What was this man's career prior to his disappearance?" the child asked, not timidly. Roger's expression was rather pinched but he acquiesced to searching for the information among his papers. "A pathologist at a local hospital," he answered unemotionally. The boy said nothing to acknowledge Roger's contribution, so Quillish stepped in for him.

"A pathologist, interesting… I wonder if one of those mafia blokes has developed a tumor," he joked.

No one laughed.

Quillish cleared his throat noisily and continued, now in a more serious tone, "What is this man's name, Roger?"

Roger's ears turned pink. How could he have forgotten the most crucial piece of information? He shuffled through his papers again.

"The name is…" he scoured the page and Quillish looked at the boy's wandering eyes expectantly.

"Isaac Lawliet"

Nothing, not the faintest sign of recognition.

"Quite an odd name," Roger continued, "considering he is Japanese on his mother's side—"

"You're saying it wrong" the boy cut in.

"I beg your pardon?"

"His surname, you just said _law-lee-et_," he bit his thumb "it's pronounced _low-light_."

"Low-light…" echoed Quillish, "Isaac Lawliet…" he pronounced it correctly, "How did you know this?"

The boy just shrugged, shaking his head. He had not blinked for some time now, Wammy noticed. Roger sighed in frustration but Quill's suspicions grew stronger.

"Very well, this is excellent!" he turned to Roger.

"Is there anything else I should search for regarding this man?"

"Oh, the works… Especially research his deceased wife and his two children, their names, their appearances, their habits, everything. Also please look into that house in Toronto. Find descriptions of content and interiors, room per room."

"I am not worried about the people, but such a detailed report on the house will be difficult to find."

"Oh, I have faith in you, my friend," Quillish walked over to Roger and clapped a big hand on his shoulder. "If push comes to shove I could always help you investigate later on tonight."

Roger nodded and left the room a few seconds later. He seemed to do so in a great hurry. When Quillish turned around he found the boy blinking at him incredulously, his knees dropped from his usual pose. Wammy looked a question straight at him and the child regrouped, both mentally and physically.

"Just like that?" he said, resting his chin on his knees, still staring at the older man in front of him. Quillish was quite amused at this new awe in his voice.

"Let us just say we have a very powerful search engine," the veteran chuckled. The boy fell silent, that sparkle of sheer curiosity back in his eyes. A moment later, he looked up at Quillish with the now alive lamps. A smile playing on his thin lips.

"Who are you?" he said in wonder.

"I am the man who is going to find the ones that did this to you and bring them to JUSTICE. Remember this."

"Justice…" the boy repeated softly.

He smiled.

* * *

**A/N: this chapter came ****out faster than I expected 0.o' Seem to be writing a mile a minute all day lately… I really ought to pay more attention in class, though. I hope L's not too OOC in this bit… I think he's a bit chattier than usual but he would seem like the type to want to show off X3. Anyway, please tell me what you think of this! Any suggestions, corrections or just mindless drabble are welcome!**

**By the way, for those of you having doubts, it ****is**** pronounced low-light! In "How to Read" it says **_**Eru Roraito**_**, kinda as in Raito****Light so it's the same thing (L Lawliet****Eru Roraito). Otherwise it would be like **_**Eru Rarieto**_** or something to that effect… I know, it sounds funny so there ya' go.**

**PS: I promise this is the last time I'll change the story's title and summary… I just wasn't happy with it before, sorry --'**

**- Shiva**


	5. The Rush

**A/N: yay! 15**** reviews so far! Pathetic of me, I know, but I like them! Thank you everybody who took the time to do so, especially LimitedMage, my not-quite-a-beta-reader (sends kisses)**

**Enjoy**

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR: THE RUSH 

When he got back to the base, Quillish found Roger sitting at his computer. He was so focused on the screen he did not seem to have noticed Quillish standing beside him. Wammy had the temptation to give his friend a good jolt but repressed the childish urge. He compensated for his whim by tapping Roger roughly on one shoulder. The older-looking man jumped in his chair but swiftly regained his dignity.

"Have you found anything else?" Quillish asked with a chuckle.

"Only on Lawliet and his family. I found photographs as well. Now, about that house in Toronto…" Roger sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair, "It's been a royal hassle! The files are restricted from civilian access so I am hacking the database as we speak."

Quillish pulled a swivel chair to the large mahogany desk where his friend was working. He appreciated what Roger was doing. Quillish knew that his scrawny friend hated any kind of intrusion, namely hacking, even though he was surprisingly good at it. He squinted at the screen. The lights around them were limited to a small bit pouring from the gap under the door and the computer's aggressive glare.

"Here are the photographs of him and his family,"

Roger clicked on something and the face of a man popped up on the screen. He had the strong build of a stereotypical Canadian with a square jaw and a bold nose to match. Arian colors tinged his skin and irises but his eyes also had that oriental sharpness that indicated a triangular face which he did not have. His brows were fine, his cheeks were smooth and his slicked-back hair was jet black. Although his eyes were light, they possessed a certain hollowness that Quillish found familiar. All in all he was inexplicably handsome, a _dangerous_ kind of handsome.

"Isaac Lawliet," Quillish repeated under his breath.

Another click and the photograph changed. It now showed a woman and a beautiful woman at that. She had an angular face of ivory skin. Her dark eyes were impossibly large and slightly sunken which cast shadows around them, long lashes attempting to hide that intelligent gleam. Her full lips matched her deep-chocolate, wavy locks which seemed befitting of a Greek goddess. They twined lazily around her slender neck and cascaded onto her narrow shoulders.

"Louise Martin," Roger breathed in the appropriate French accent, "spouse to Lawliet, died at nine-forty-five p.m. on April the fourteenth, 1988."

Quillish turned from his friend to the woman on the screen. She was staring straight at him, she wanted to say something. Quillish longed to know what it was. Roger continued, "She met Lawliet in Yale where she studied law,"

"A lawyer?"

Roger nodded, "Ivy League… Parisian…"

Quillish could not tear his eyes from the screen. She possessed an eloquence worthy of what Quillish calculated to be some kind of European geisha.

"Now for the children," Roger's voice had become rather tense all of a sudden. The screen flickered for the third time and the woman was gone. In her stead was a split page with two photographs. Quillish gasped audibly. The two children were young and very much alike; one almost could've said they were twins. One of them, the girl, had fine features, large eyes, pale skin and fluffy dark hair kept in place by a headband. The other, the boy, seemed to have the same build yet not as refined. He had a slightly larger mouth than his sister and a longer nose. He was just as pale and slim, however, and his eyes—though huge and slightly sunken as his sibling's—seemed devoid of any life, cold and staring as his father's. Quillish had been under that very same gaze and now, more than ever, it paralyzed him.

"L and J Lawliet," came Roger's voice.

"Elle and Jay? Then this Jay is—"

"No. Actually, the names are just letters,"

Quillish blinked twice, stunned. "J?" he traced the letter in the air with his finger.

Roger shook his head. "Your boy, Quillish… his name is L," he whispered in his friend's ear. A triumphant smile governed his features.

Quillish looked up at Roger, unable to express his gratitude. His friend understood and smiled back. Wammy turned to the photograph. It was obviously outdated as the boy seemed much older now, but he was, without a doubt, the exact same person.

"The photographs are a bit old," said Roger, echoing his partner's thoughts, "They were taken in 1986 when the family arrived at Toronto, Canada. L was born on a Hallo's Eve, October the thirty-first, seven years prior." Quillish only nodded when suddenly, it hit him. '_Wait, 1986 to—seven years—1979 and 1990? That means that L is now—_' "L is eleven years old, Quillish" Roger finished for him.

Wammy checked the photograph yet again. The boy's hair was cropped short to keep the otherwise unruly strands in check. Quillish smiled sadly, '_His mother dead, his father taken by the mafia and only God knows what happened to his sister…_' He stared harder at the picture, the boy stared back.

"L Lawliet…"

His eyes flashed to the watch in his hands. '_8:15… perhaps I still have time_' He pushed himself away from the desk and grabbed his coat from the wall.

"Where are you going?" Roger called after him, getting up as well.

"I cannot have him wait any longer!" was all Quillish answered.

"Surely you are not thinking—" Wammy kept walking. Obviously he was. "Quillish, wait!" Roger ran after him.

* * *

Quillish Wammy drove the car, almost having taken off without Roger. It was pouring, yet the man had not even taken an umbrella, nor was he being too prudent on the road. Roger grasped his seat and cursed mildly every time his friend had to swerve to avoid another vehicle. Quillish was an excellent driver by any standards but right now he was really pushing it. 

"Be careful, Quillish, or we'll arrive to St. Augustine's in an ambulance instead!"

Wammy lowered his speed considerably, yet they were still doing close to a hundred miles per hour. He careened into the parking space without slowing down and marched up to the hospital door. Roger scrambled behind him, slightly tipsy from the ride.

"What ever are you in such a hurry for?"

"He has been waiting for this, I can feel it,"

"Who, the boy?"

"Yes,"

"And you're going to wake him up for this?"

"He is not asleep at the moment."

How Quillish knew this, Roger could only guess. The receptionist tried to stop the two soaked men. It was past visiting hours, she said, but Quillish pressed firmly on, saying it was urgent. Finally, they arrived at room 314. Quillish was about to grasp the handle, when Roger pulled his hand back. "Think about what you are doing!" he whispered urgently. "You do not want to confuse this boy even more. He has been tormented enough without knowing what happened to his family. The boy has been kidnapped, tortured, drugged, raped, Quillish, _raped_! Do not add this to his list of grievances."

Quillish rounded on him, scattering water from his hair on the floor. "Do you think I am stupid, that I know nothing about caring for children at all?" he hissed, "_Of course_ I'm not telling him anything about his family or about what was done to him. He will have to remember eventually and that is the truth. But this boy was left to _die_, Roger. He has been abandoned even by his own memories—he has the right to know! Don't you think that I would have been spared a great deal of misery had someone told me who I was before it was too late?!"

It was then that Roger understood. This had become personal.

"Yes. Forgive me, Quillish. I know you meant him no harm,"

Wammy turned away, his face burning. "Nobody should be kept from their name," he said, his voice shaking. Roger placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, "I know, I know" he nodded and they both entered the room.

A couple of pinpricks of light stared back at them from a corner in the dark room.

"Mr. Wammy?"

Roger spoke first, "Did we wake you, lad?"

"Not at all, Mr. Roger. I hardly ever sleep." His voice seemed almost perky at the moment, expectant.

Quillish flicked on a small lamp and glanced over at the boy. '_Eleven years old?_' He could hardly believe it at first; the soft, pale skin, the timid gestures… but that deep voice, that elongated build, those cold eyes—and his _intelligence_! Quillish tried looking at him as though for the first time. '_Of course…_' he thought. He could see it now. Then he noticed the child's expression.

"You were waiting for us?" he ventured.

"Yes," there was a persistent twinkle in his eyes. "You found something? Something important?"

Quillish sighed, "Yes, yes we did."

"Does it have to do with that man?"

Quillish could not confirm that, neither could he deny it and lie. '_I must be careful,_' "It has to do with you."

The boy's eyes widened. "You found me?"

Quillish nodded, aware that Roger was watching him warily. He had to be careful with what he said. This kid was no fool and he would see through any lies—probably through any half-truths as well. Once again, Quillish decided that being honest with him was the way to go. "We found out pretty much everything about you," he said almost calmly.

Almost, but not quite, and the little insomniac noticed this.

"You know who I am but you won't tell me."

Quillish looked up in alarm. The boy seemed downright crestfallen; he sighed, "I knew something like this would happen,"

"Oh?" came Roger.

"You've been investigating. You're tracking someone down. This must be some kind of covert organization for two of its top agents to look so unmilitary-like,"

Quillish and Roger glanced at eachother. They were in their black (and very wet) suits with their briefcases and spectacles, Roger still trailing that sodden black umbrella. '_Perhaps he has a point there,_' Quillish thought.

"Therefore," the boy continued, "what ever you find out must be kept top secret."

There was an awkward pause but Quillish did not wish to confirm his statement. He walked over to the cot and sat on the chair beside him, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. The boy edged to the rim of the cot and perched himself there, all the closer to him.

"It is true that our investigation is of utmost secrecy, but the reason we cannot tell you all about you at the moment is because you are still recovering. Do not get me wrong," he said urgently upon seeing the boy's indignant face, "we know you are strong but we wish you to remember step-by-step. Otherwise, we would be making you suffer needlessly."

"Suffer? Then it's bad, what you found?"

Quillish practically hear Roger clap a hand to his forehead. He was not loosing control of this, no matter what his friend thought.

"What do you think?" he asked the boy tonelessly.

"I think so…"

"Then you are right,"

"You think I can't handle it?"

"I'd rather not find out."

The eleven-year-old fell silent, curling into himself again.

"There is, however, something I cannot rightfully keep from you, even if I wanted to."

The boy perked up again. "My name?" he said so hopefully it broke Wammy's heart. He _knew_ the feeling, he had _been_ there. He prayed it wasn't too late for this boy.

"Your name," he said as Roger stood on tenderloins, "is L… L Lawliet."

The reaction was like nothing they had expected. Silence hung in the air, save for the storm that raged outside and a shuddering gasp. Then, eyes impossibly wide, the boy named L grabbed his hair, fingers buried deep into the dark tangles. He did not utter a word, bare teeth gritted in a suppressed growl. The heart rate monitor's pace reached an unbearable frequency and the belated scream came mere seconds later. It was not shrill as a terrified child's but a terrible shout, powerful as an adult's voice and all the more unsettling coming from the small mouth. The cry seemed to shake the very foundation of reality for Quillish. He was transfixed by the deafening sound. The boy had finally lost his breath. With a final sigh, he keeled over forwards, falling rapidly from the bed.

"Quillish!" cried Roger, but his friend was already moving. He caught the boy in the nick of time just as he reached the floor. Tubes and racks crashed around them and Roger dashed to their aid. The heart rate monitor's beeps slowed down gradually. Both men worried it might stop altogether. Wammy straightened himself out, cradling the boy in his arms and crossed legs. The child's sunken eyes were closed, a rare sight and one that made Quillish want to cry. He shook the boy gently.

"L… L! What happened?!" '_What happened?_'

The boy merely opened his eyes a little and began to say something. His voice was too hoarse to allow him any speech. Quillish squeezed his hand encouragingly. "Tell us," Roger urged.

"J," he blew.

"What?" came the two men together.

"I have… to find… J,"

L fainted.

* * *

**A/N:**** grins expectantly :D You like? Then review, please! The more reviews I get the more likely I am to publish the next chapter (wink wink, nudge nudge) What can I say, my story lives for its audience!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**- Shiva**


	6. Trust

**A/N: Finally this is up! Thank you for all the nice reviews, they help me get my spirits up so much! Also thanks to LimitedMage again for being my beta reader (it's now official yay!)**

**Enough rambling, on to the story XD**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE: TRUST

"Perhaps… this was not such a good idea," Quillish admitted to Roger as they sat in the waiting room. It was four a.m. yet neither of them had slept at all. After the boy named L had passed out he had gone into shock. A few seconds later the medics had burst into the room, strapped him to the cot and wheeled him to the emergency room several floors above. Quillish and Roger had been severely scolded by various nurses—namely agregar 'a' o 'the' chubby one with red hair—and even by the receptionist. What was wrong with them, they asked? What had they done to that boy to agitate him so?

Roger glanced worriedly over at his friend. He knew Quillish blamed himself completely for L's current state. Wammy had hardly spoken for hours and just sat there with a stony face but Roger could almost hear his thoughts as though his mind were shouting them. His expression certainly did.

"It's not your fault, Quillish," Roger said at a length, "you were doing the right thing…" he trailed off as a white lab coat approached them. The tall young man in it had a highly polished look, a professional gait and a warm smile. "Good morning, sirs," he said in a slight New Zealand accent, "I am Dr Paul Ryan and I am in charge of the young man you brought in."

Quillish snapped out of his reverie and straightened out of his hunched-over posture. He acknowledged the doctor's presence with a grim nod. Roger had hardly ever seen his friend in such a dark mood but knew that when he became this way it would be hard to get him to be anything but stoic. The young doctor sat down in a chair in front of them and placed his hands on the coffee table, his very posture earnest.

"Right now he is in a critical state, he is—even though over the past five days since he arrived we have been able to re-hydrate him, get rid of that impending hypothermia, cure his concussion, stitch back his head and various other wounds and regulate that advancing anemia of his. Nonetheless, he seems much weaker all of a sudden. He did not respond well to the anesthesia even though we were careful not to overdose him since he is severely underweight, and he only woke up about an hour ago,"

At this Quillish looked up, his expression so odd it was unreadable even to Roger.

"Unfortunately," Ryan continued, noting Wammy's reaction, "this was only so for a few minutes. He tried to get up, to no avail, and muttered something in a language no one understood. I am not too sure but I think it is Japanese,"

Quillish frowned at his shoes. "It most likely is Japanese," he said. Roger only nodded, '_The mafia that sequestered him and his father are Japanese, the Lawliets lived in Japan for about a year when L was six years old and L's grandfather is Japanese so it makes sense._'

The doctor hummed and continued, "Shortly after that he just fainted again. During that time he refused to eat and did not speak to or even look at anyone," He glanced at the two men in front of him, "You have quite the mystery on your hands, eh?" Quillish only nodded, not looking up from the floor. Dr Ryan gave the man a concerned look that only Roger saw and got up from the chair. He placed a heavy hand on Wammy's shoulder.

"I'll keep you up to date if anything else happens. And please, don't feel guilty," he added as he walked away, "The mind works in mysterious ways; its effects on the body are incalculable."

He was gone

---------------------------

Three hours later, Quillish was still at the clinic, waiting. Roger had gone back to the base and brought him a change of clothes and a couple of work things to keep his mind occupied. At the moment, the two men were sitting at the cafeteria, finishing their breakfast while working on a report. Well, _Roger_ was finishing his breakfast, Quillish had said he was not hungry and had a cup of tea instead. He swilled the dregs of Earl Gray around, staring unblinkingly at some lost point in midair.

Both men looked up when they heard hurried steps coming down the hall. They looked at eachother, not daring to guess what was going on. Mere seconds later, Dr Ryan was marching vigorously across the cafeteria, coming straight at them. His expression was so flustered that Quillish and Roger received him already standing.

"Gentlemen," he managed to say politely as he gasped for air. The other two nodded rather stiffly. "I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me,"

"Is something wrong with the boy?" Quillish asked urgently.

"Not physically, really," Dr Ryan responded, his voice angsty, "He seems to have regained some strength—quite a bit actually—and is now using it to try to break free. We cannot anesthetize him any further for risk of complications so I have told my colleagues to restrain him with the utmost care. The problem is he is kicking back so viciously that it may not be long before the doctors are obliged to be a bit more forceful!" He turned to Quillish, cerulean eyes wide. "Perhaps you might be able to calm him down?"

A few moments later the three men were running up the staircase, not bothering to wait for the elevator. They dashed across the halls, Quillish keeping his ears peeled for any sound of a struggle. Only their echoing footsteps met his hearing.

"It's here," Dr Ryan said finally, halting in front of an unlabeled door. It was rather quiet save for a clicking, creaking sound. Bits of conversation about something happening for the second time and that it was a miracle that he hadn't broken anything ("Tell that to my nose…"), carried through to the other side. The young doctor opened the door and the three men were met with a shocking scene.

Quillish could hardly believe his eyes.

The gurney had been turned vertically and it now leaned against the wall, forming an eighty-degree angle between itself and the floor. Strapped to the large, solid cot was L. His torso was forced into a straightjacket and strapped against the bed with several crisscrossing belts, his legs set slightly apart and his whole frame hardly resting on the cot. There was a bandana tied over his eyes and another rolled across his mouth. Three doctors stood as far away from him as possible, looking severely ruffled. One of them held a blood-stained handkerchief to his nose while another sat in the armchair, cradling his head in an icepack.

Out of the six adults in the room, Paul Ryan looked the most dumbfounded. '_Perhaps he had not intended them to go this far,'_ thought Roger, '_A __**bit**__ more forceful?! So much for "utmost care" I say…_' "What's going on?" began Ryan, beholding the odd scene.

"Darn kid knows some kind of martial art," said the doctor with the icepack. The one with the broken nose just nodded but stopped immediately and placed a hand to his temple. "Go have someone check that out for you, Scott. Ethan, go with him" said Ryan, resuming some authority in his voice. Quillish looked from the bloodstained handkerchief of one of the doctor that passed him to the defenseless figure strapped to the cot. "L?" he said softly, his voice trembling. There was a pause in the boy's movement and his struggle came back with a vengeance, now with a frustrated growling on L's part. Roger bit his lips nervously and the two remaining doctors looked at eachother, completely lost.

"Let him go!" Quillish cried.

"You heard him, Reggie," added Ryan none-too-convincingly, edging warily towards the cot. "help me with this."

They were all surprised to find that the boy went completely lax once they began to carefully undo his bindings. Even as they released him from the straightjacket he did not fidget in the slightest bit. Once he was completely free, however, he stumbled back into the cot and yanked off bandana around his eyes and mouth. He stood there, panting for several moments, his dark tangles shading his eyes. He glanced frantically around him with large, bright eyes and scampered across the room. L bumped into Quillish who received him with open arms. The boy looked up at the older man, hot tears streaming down his smooth, pale cheeks. He then buried his face in Wammy's coat as a shuddering sob wracked the length of his frail body.

"There, there now" Quillish crooned, hugging the boy back and stroking his fluffy mess of hair.

"I thought I was back there again," L said in a small, shaky voice.

'_Back where again?_' Quillish decided it was best not to ask. Instead, he held him tighter and whispered in his ear, "Well you're not. You're with me now. Do you remember who I am?" He felt L nod into his chest.

"I remember everything now!" the boy choked, still crying.

Quillish went cold

"Everything?"

"Everything!"

A pause, then, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Yes, I know you're the only one who can help me now."

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It took the staff all of ten minutes to have the room ready as per Wammy's instructions. The gurney had been lowered back onto the floor and pushed against a corner, the belts had been removed altogether, the doctors were gone and in their stead a small, collapsible table held two cups of chamomile tea in their saucers, a couple of empty plates, two forks and a small pound cake. The two remaining people in the room nibbled at the simple treats in silence until, finally, L spoke.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wammy. I don't know how to start. It's like I can't bring my self to talk about it."

Quillish just smiled. He had known something like this would happen. He'd never expected this boy—even from the time he did not know his name—to just start retelling the events of his time in captivity. He had begun planning his steps carefully from the very night they'd found him. Now, despite the small detour that the amnesia had caused, he arrived right where he'd intended to from the start. Now, it was time to get to know the truth behind those dead eyes. What had killed their glow?

'_As L said, I may be the only hope for him and what might be left of his family_'

Quillish didn't know whether to feel proud or sad. He forced a smile which he knew L could see through anyway and sighed. "I understand," he said, "Why don't you try telling me about yourself instead?"

"About myself?"

"Yes, as far back as you can remember. About when you lived in England or Japan, about your family if you want…"

L munched thoughtfully on a bit of pound cake.

"I get it," he stated at a length, "We make our way through my story till we get into the bit about… well" he trailed off and rested his chin on his knees. "Hopefully by then it will be easier," he concluded, speaking more to himself than to Quillish. Wammy cleared his throat, "That is the idea. My goal is not to make you more uncomfortable,"

L nodded softly while staring at the fork he dangled from his thumb and index finger. The eleven-year-old took a long draught of the sweet tea and turned to his companion.

"Alright," he said resolutely, "I'll start from as far back as I can remember. You may be surprised but my memory is actually quite good."

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**A/N: Sorry for taking so long, guys! Schoolwork and final exams have got me running around like a headless chicken and my own computer has just awoken from its year-long coma but somehow I got this through. Let me know if any of the characters are—forgive my redundancy—OOC for I feel I am walking on eggshells!**

**By the way, one of the reviews (of someone who borders on clairvoyant 0.o) just gave a BIG spoiler about this story. I will speak no further as it is up to you to investigate (if you want) or just wait and see what the big surprise is. Review please!**

**- Shiva**


	7. Begginings

CHAPTER SIX: BEGGININGS

Although I cannot remember when J was born, I do have memories of us as little children. When she was about three years old and I was five –we lived in England— mum had to take J to some special doctors. It's not that she was sick, it's just that she wouldn't speak.

"_Mrs Lawliet, the results are back," said the aged doctor. "And…" Louise urged him expectantly, cradling a wide-eyed toddler in one arm while the other held on to the hem of her blouse. _

They knew what was wrong right away. They said she was born with a defect, like she was missing something.

"_Mummy, what are voco-vo… um"_

"_Vocal chords?"_

"_Uh–huh!"_

"_They are these tiny strings that you have right here," Louise touched a point in her son's throat, "When they move, your voice comes out."_

"_I get it! So that's what J is missing!"_

"_Exactly. That's why she can hear us but she cannot talk."_

"_Can't we just give her some new ones?"_

_Louise gave him a sad smile. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, baby…"_

One thing was for sure, she was never going to have a voice of her own, or so they said. Time passed and I think J realized there was something very wrong with her because she got broodier every day. It must be frustrating, I imagine; to understand everything around you –which she did— names and concepts, **meanings**… and not be able to say a thing about it. I realized at once she desperately wanted to.

So I tried to help her.

She was pretty reluctant at first, tried to ignore me, but I kept trying to catch her interest.

"_Hullo, J!" said the small boy enthusiastically, "want to play a game with me?" _

_The three-year-old in front of him nodded, tossing her bowl-cut, dark hair. "Okay then…" L continued, getting rather excited himself, "Here are the rules: You have to imitate whatever I do, no matter how silly or simple it may seem, got it?" The toddler nodded again, this time eyeing her brother suspiciously. She was no fool, but L was not easily daunted._

"_If you manage to win, you'll win a great prize, one that'll last you forever! But I warn you; it's a very long game and you have to win the whole thing to get the prize. You still want to play?"_

_J nodded again, a rare sparkle in her eyes. She loved a challenge and her brother knew it._

I tested my theory in the guise of a game which I played with her. I had seen J laugh and cry silently before so I thought that if she could do that I might, just might, be able to make her speak –in a way. In the game I had her imitate me blowing out a candle, then shushing someone, then frosting a window with our breaths, then hissing like a snake, then sneezing, then coughing… we kept at it for hours. Some of it even made her laugh, further proving my point. We tried different sounds, each one harder than the last; growling, clicking her tongue, trilling it into a drumroll, tutting…

_It had been weeks since L had first proposed that game and he decided it had been long enough. There was however, a problem: He did not know how to get her to take that last step, the hardest. L meandered through the ample, sunlit halls of their home, licking a lollypop and lost in these very thoughts. _

_Where was the girl anyway?_

_He wandered out into the yard and found a small, hunched-over figure in the middle of the grass, clad in a pale yellow dress and caramel baby boots. J crouched on the green, prickly carpet, extending a chubby hand at the bushes in front of her._

"_What are you doing?" L squatted beside her, lively lamps probing her expression. J onlu pointed at the bushes, staring intently ahead. "There's something in there?"_

_J nodded viggurously._

"_What is it?"_

_She frowned at him._

"_C'mon, tell me! What is it?" L pressed, deepening his sister's scowl. "Okay, then what does it sound like?" _

_J looked back at him in dispair. Then, she curved her fingers into claws and growled. _

_L decided to play dumb. "What's a 'grrr'?"_

_J tried a different sound. She pursed her lips, then breathed an "a" into a "u". "Mau!" she uttered again and again._

"_There you go!" said L, "But I still don't understand what a 'mau' is…"_

_J was getting more exasperated by the second. She waved her arms, spamped her feet and screamed silently as frustrated tears streamed down her pale cheeks. L did his best to remain unfazed._

"_Why won't you just tell me what it's __**called**__, silly?" he insisted._

Till one day I found a way. The game ended.

"_Cuh… cuh-ahh…"_

_It had taken them hours and a great many tears. The furry thing in the bushes was long gone but at least J was trying to say its name._

"_That's it… tell me what it's called!"_

"_Cah… Caaahhhh-tt-t…"_

"_What?"_

"_Caaht… Cat!"_

_L could harldy contain his grinning, a coy thumb pressed to his lips. "Oh, so it was a cat… " They couldn't stop there, he knew it. L pointed at a tree. "And what's that?"_

_J told him, barely struggling this time._

"_And that?"_

_She told him again… and again, and again as L pointed to different objects in the garden. Each word cost her a little less effort than the last._

"_And who am I?"_

_J turned her large and very now very wet eyes at him, a big grin across her face._

"_L!" she said, "brothhh-er!"_

J took to speaking more frequently than I predicted. The more she learned the faster she seemed to do so. Not even a week had gone by before we were all able to talk to her… She was just **fluent** all of a sudden. I mean, of course she didn't have a voice per sé, but she could whisper the words, use her lips and tongue to mold the sounds.

"_Brother, where are we going? Mum won't tell me," J whispered, loudly as she could, hanging on to her brother's hand as they walked home from preschool. _

"_We're moving," L replied simply, feeling but not showing he'd miss his current home._

"_Moving where?"_

"_Somewhere far away… somewhere daddy's getting a good job," his voice held only a tinge of sadness._

"_We won't ever come back here?"_

"_Oh we'll come back to visit I guess… but we're going somewhere different, somewhere special."_

"_Are the people nice there?"_

"_I dunno, J, I just don't know…"_

_J frowned up at him, "What are you talking about? Big brother knows more than mummy or daddy; big brother knows eveything!"_

_L chuckled, blushing slightly, "Someday I will…"_

When we moved to Japan about a year later we went to live in a country-side house by a lake. We were homeschooled at the time and J was happy for the new challenge that was learning Japanese, we both were. She… she actually learned it faster than I did, I have to admit. Even after we moved to Canada the year after **that**, she still spoke to me mostly in Japanese. Mum and dad didn't like it.

Canada? Oh… well, um… In Toronto –it was— we had a large house with many rooms and— Uhh… Mr Wammy, can we continue tomorrow? Oh, no, no… I'm just— I think I'm just a bit tired, is all…

Thank you! Good night Mr. Wammy.

Of course, I'll continue tomorrow…

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**A/N: sighs okay... okay this took me FOREVER, I know... ugh... i had to do chemistry reinforcements in vacation and I just entered my senior year. The workload is driving me CRAZY. I actually had finished writing this in some random notebook about a week ago but only had time to pass it to PC format this afternoon.**

**Please forgive my delay and I'm sorry if it's a bit confusing! Simultaneous narrations are a first for me not to mention it's terribly difficult to write a long monologue for L and still keep him in character! 3 (hope I did that well enough... any reproaches please tell me!)**

**Anywho, the next two or three chapters are going to be somewhat like this but I'll try getting them in faster... nn¿ grumbles at chemistry homework**

**Please R&R**

**- Shiva**


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